


Pressure Points

by darter_blue



Series: Pressure [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom Bucky Barnes, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mile High Club, POV Bucky Barnes, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23528602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darter_blue/pseuds/darter_blue
Summary: Bucky Barnes hates to fly. And this flight is starting out worse than normal. Except for the hot, built, blond sat beside him... Who has shoulders for days, a voice like molasses, and some very interesting ideas about how to ease Bucky's anxiety...For my Bucky Barnes Bingo square: U2/ kink - Mile High Club
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Pressure [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696774
Comments: 104
Kudos: 783
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	Pressure Points

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a bit of shameless smut
> 
> And some Fluff, because it's me.
> 
> And I had a lot of fun with this one :D

Bucky hates to fly.

There isn't any part of the entire flight experience that Bucky doesn't hate.

He hates the stress of getting to the airport on time. He hates the stress of checking his luggage. He hates, HATES the stress of going through security and having to get a full body scan, explain his prosthetic, show the certified medical letter he has for said prosthetic, that it's attached, that it includes targeted electrodes in a sheath to allow for nervous system control and can't be 'removed' except under extreme circumstances by a medical professional. He hates the push and pull of being herded onto a plane.

And what he most especially hates, enough to bring on panic attacks, is actually being in the fucking air.

People are not meant to fly.

Bucky is convinced that being in a metal death trap, squeezed into a too small seat like a fucking sardine, will in fact be the thing that finally kills him.

Now, under normal circumstances, when Bucky is forced to fly rather than take a train, or drive to one of the useless piece of shit conferences that his CEO made mandatory for researchers (and Bucky was looking for grant money to branch out on his own, but the President is an asshole, yeah? And nobody's investing in biomechanics right now) he would dope up on some antihistamines and sleep his way through the terror.

Unfortunately, his last four Promethazine tablets are spread crushed through the bottom of his carry-on bag. And it takes him so long to get through security with the poor woman who is simultaneously terrified to ask him about his arm and too paranoid to let him past without thorough investigation, that he has to sprint to his gate to make it before the plane takes off without him.

So Bucky has a three and a half hour flight through which he will sit, sober and awake, waiting to die in a ball of fiery, molten, fuselage.

Please just shoot him and let it be over already.

They haven't even taken off yet.

The only saving grace is that the seat between himself and the next passenger is empty. And actually, now that he's looking, the next passenger is something of a looker… wow. Okay, he's sort of magnificent, in a blond, blue eyed, wholesome type of way. His shoulders are ridiculous. Bucky has a feeling the attendant specifically sat him next to an empty seat at the sight of them.

He also sees Bucky look over at him and gives him a smile. Which, any other day, would have Bucky in all sorts of trouble, but today, it's just background noise to the very small panic attack that he is discreetly suffering in his window seat.

He's breathing; in for five seconds, hold for seven seconds, breath out for five seconds. It's making him a little light headed to be honest and he's not sure that's any kind of improvement.

The pilot is making bad puns over the intercom and informing them all that they're about to take off, the flight attendants are getting ready to make their safety demonstrations. Bucky is actively working not to jump up out of his seat and try and bust out of the moving plane. It's no threat to him while it's still on the ground, right? He's aware that his fear of flying may not be totally rational, but tell that to his speeding pulse right now.

While Bucky watches the flight attendants describe all the ways in which he might die in as friendly and non threatening a way as possible, a tentative hand has snuck its way into his periphery, and is creeping slowly towards his arm, resting on (clutching at) the armrest.

Bucky looks over at its owner with what is probably some hardcore manic eye movement, and finds him looking back at Bucky with the kind of gentle concern one might bestow upon a trapped animal.

'Are you okay?' concerned citizen says, hand outreached but still shy of actually touching Bucky.

Bucky swallows and takes a breath before attempting to answer, 'Yes?' He doesn't mean for it to come out like a question. He also doesn't mean to be a quivering mess of human emotion right now, but that doesn't seem to matter to his nervous system.

'Let me guess,' the guy says, smiling with a calm aplomb that Bucky is finding weirdly hot, 'You hate flying?'

Bucky wants to cry that apparently he is so obvious. Instead he just nods, shutting his eyes for a second too long to be a blink and looks back at the curious stranger with resignation.

_'Are_ you okay?'

'Um, no. Not really,' Bucky says and huffs a laugh at his own pathetic-ness. 'I'm usually much better than this, I think I'm just having a really bad day.'

'I can help...' the guy says, his voice is deep and soft. And what the fuck does that mean? And why is he looking at Bucky like that? Like he wants to eat him. 'May I sit here?' he's gesturing to the empty seat between them and Bucky is panicking for a whole different reason because _what the actual fuck_?

'Umm...' Bucky doesn't really have the capacity to answer right now, he's 89% floundering over here, but the big guy clearly takes it as a yes, because he's unbuckling his seat-belt and moving those shoulders ever closer to Bucky, and god, up close he even smells ridiculous, like line dried laundry and vanilla beans.

'Here let me,' and he moves in, leaning into Bucky's space, he takes up Bucky's right arm, lifting it gently from it's fierce hold on the arm rest. Bucky can't even stop him, he just watches it happen, watches as the guy puts both hands on him, cradling him like he's precious and then suddenly presses gently with two fingers into the pulse point of Bucky's wrist.

Bucky looks up into bright, ocean blue eyes, 'What?' which isn't much of a question, but he doesn't know what else to say.

'Acupressure,' the guy says, not massaging, just keeping that gentle pressure on the point one or two inches below Bucky's wrist. 'It's good for anxiety.'

And holy shit. It wasn't what Bucky was expecting, and he's not sure if it's the pressure, or the surrealty, or the abandoned fear that he was about to get either murdered or a hand job from his super hot seat mate, but he realizes he completely missed take-off. They're already in the air.

'Are you a masseuse?' Bucky asks, because, well aside from the inappropriate thoughts he's currently entertaining, it seems like a logical question.

'No,' he laughs softly, it feels so intimate in such close quarters, 'I used to get anxious a lot though,' and the look he gives Bucky is heart wrenchingly sincere.

'Not anymore?' Bucky asks. He doesn't seem at all like an anxious type of guy.

'Not so much.' He moves his hand from Bucky's inner arm to his hand and starts pressure on a point between his thumb and index finger. This time he does massage a little, and Bucky might be melting into the seat. His whole body is suddenly like butter.

'Oh god,' Bucky says, exhaling, and is morbidly aware of how breathy it sounded. 'Sorry, that's just... you're really good at that.'

'Steve.'

'Sorry?'

'That's my name, Steve,' the guy, _Steve_ says. And lord, Bucky is making all kinds of fool of himself today.

'Oh, me, I'm Bucky... sorry, I mean my friends call me Bucky.' And he gives a stupid little wave with his left hand. Steve raises an eyebrow at the metal hand, but Bucky tucks it back into his lap, choosing not to answer the unasked question.

'Well, it's nice to meet you, Bucky.'

'You too.'

Steve takes his hands away and lays Buck's arm back down across the arm rest. 'there's a couple more points, but it's probably not appropriate for me to touch you there, at least not here,' Steve says, though he makes no move to leave the seat he's now occupying.

'Oh,' Bucky says, brief flashes of what Steve might deem inappropriate flashing through his mind, 'no, thank you, that was great.' He takes his right arm off the rest between them and places it in his lap. The residual heat from where Steve had held him is enough to keep the anxiety of the flight at bay.

They end up getting drinks from the cart when it comes past, though Bucky sticks to tea (god he would kill for a beer, but it's not a great idea, with how he's feeling) and Steve gets coffee (which he suggests tastes a little like rocket fuel, but drinks anyway). Bucky tentatively asks questions about Steve's trip and gets vague answers in return. Steve asks Bucky questions about the book that he had brought with him to read (The Thief, which he has read many times before and can't recommend enough) and they run out of inane conversation about half way through the flight. Just in time for a hint of turbulence to have Bucky's breath catching in his chest and his arm gripping that rest again for all it's worth.

'Can I touch you again, Bucky?' Steve asks, and Christ if that voice isn't like molasses down Bucky's spine, all rich and dark and full of promise. It has his brain so muddled he's not even thinking about what he's saying. Just offers his arm up like a tribute.

'At least I know you're just going for my arm this time.' And really? Did he just say that?

Steve looks up at him sharply and unfortunately yes, it appears he did. 'Where exactly did you think I was going to touch you before, Bucky?' he asks, and his eyebrows can't go any higher.

'No... nowhere,' Bucky stutters, trying and failing to not look at his dick in his pants, 'I wasn't sure, I-'

'Were you just going to let me grab you like that right here in the plane?' Steve asks, and Bucky would think he was incredulous, except he can see the tease in Steve's expression. It has him squirming in his seat.

'Yeah but, I mean to be fair...' Bucky isn't sure where he's going with this to be honest, 'I mean, have you seen you?'

To which Steve grins, ear to ear. 'Oh really?' he says, smug as all hell.

'Oh my god,' is all Bucky can say, face palming with his left hand, Steve still has a firm grasp of his right.

'Well, it's a sure proof way to relieve anxiety,' Steve has all manner of cheek in his voice now, leaning close to Bucky, just about breathing in his ear, 'we should try it.'

'Oh my god,' Bucky says again, only this time, it's more of a whisper, and it's with his eyes locked onto Steve's, the air absolutely charged between them.

'Wanna?' Steve says, his voice somehow even deeper and warmer than before. Bucky can feel it wrapping right around him.

'Yes.' It's less of a word than it is just air leaving his body, but Bucky is pretty sure the answer is in his expression. Steve doesn't rush to unbuckle his seat belt, his movements are as graceful and controlled as ever, but it takes him no time at all to get up and make his way to the bathroom. 

He makes a gesture of 'two' with his fingers, and Bucky guesses he wants two minutes before he should follow him. He watches to make sure he gets the right bathroom to meet him in, and then his heart beats with renewed panic at the thought of what he is about to do. The plane lurches, that mild turbulence again, and Bucky briefly entertains the idea of squeezing back into the corner and drawing his seat belt tightly around him. But then he thinks, shit, if he's about to die, he'd sure as hell rather do it with Steve's hand around his dick, than shaking alone in his seat.

With a fresh wave of bravery, he pushes himself out into the aisle and walks slowly and carefully down the length of the plane and waits for the door lock to flick (his eyes go back and forth along the plane, but literally no one is paying attention to him) to vacant before opening it and pressing into the confined space of the toilet, made almost impossible by the occupation of Steve's impressive bulk.

'Hi,' Steve says, smiling down at Bucky as he pushes him up against the narrow vanity that he's already covered with his brown leather jacket. Bucky wants to complain that his poor jacket deserves better but also doesn't want to be against an uncovered airplane bathroom surface, and so keeps the thought to himself. 

He looks up into Steve's eyes, alight now with purpose and pupils dilated, but before he can voice a greeting of his own, Steve is turning him around and pulling Bucky's back up against his chest, making the lack of space more comfortable, but also touching Bucky at every point it might be possible to touch a person. He grabs Bucky gently by the chin and positions his face so that Bucky is staring at the reflection of himself with Steve wrapped around him. 'I want you to watch me,' Steve says, his lips against Bucky's ear, and Bucky is so fucking hard in his pants that the tent of the fabric is obscene.

Steve starts to unclasp Bucky's belt and Bucky, though Steve has let go and moved both hands to his waist, doesn't dare look away, he wants to see it all. Steve's fingers are just as deft and graceful as Bucky imagined, wasting no time to undo Bucky's fly and snake down below the elastic of his underwear. His hands are big, and warm, his right hand cups Bucky's erection with affection before running fingers along the shaft lightly and setting his nerves alight.

With one hand firmly down Bucky's briefs, the other inches up under his light knit sweater, rucking the fabric up to expose Bucky's stomach and chest, sweeping across his nipple and brushing it softly.

'God, look at you, you're beautiful,' Steve's eyes lock onto Bucky's in the mirror. Bucky looks wrecked already.

Steve holds that position as he begins mouthing along the stretch of sensitive skin at Bucky's neck and starts to work his hand softly along the length of Bucky's dick. His left hand traces along the lines of the soft but present definition of Bucky's abs, finding the trail of hair leading down his stomach and following it with a light touch. The sensation of all of that at once has Bucky short of breath, he lets his head fall back into the strength of Steve's shoulder behind him, but Steve snaps his hand up to clasp gently around Bucky's throat, under his chin to bring his gaze back front and centre and whispers in his ear again to 'Watch, Buck.'

Jesus, he's going to die in this bathroom.

Steve removes his hand from Bucky's pants and lifts it to his mouth, swiping a long, wet tongue along his palm before sliding it back into Bucky's underwear, spit slick now to glide along the full hard length of Bucky's dick. He slips a finger into the slit and across the head, gathering the moisture there to add to the slip and slide of his hand as he passes back up and down, soon finding a rhythm.

'Gonna have to make this quick,' Steve sucks on the skin just below Bucky's ear, 'fuck I wish we didn't.' And Bucky can sort of agree, but at the same time there's something insanely intoxicating about this mad rush of hands and teeth and tongue in this tiny space, where they can hardly move. Bucky closes his eyes to the heat of Steve's hand, the tight wet grip of it building up tension in his pelvis with nowhere to go. He gets a bite to the jaw for his trouble and snaps his eyes open to Steve grinning like a wolf behind him.

Bucky's words are failing him and he's keeping his lips firmly trapped between his own sharp teeth so as not to make any noise. His right hand has reached behind him to pull Steve even closer by his ridiculously round ass, and his left arm, his metal arm, is sneaking up to run along Steve's where it's gripped at Bucky's throat, still holding his head in place to keep him from looking away. Bucky's too far gone now to bother keeping the prosthetic hidden, and Steve is eying it hungrily.

Bucky is in no position to kink shame, and some tiny part of his brain, compromised as it is, is saving the information of Steve's apparent interest for later.

The more Bucky squirms under Steve's masterful hands, the tighter he holds Bucky's throat, the faster Bucky's breath comes, the hotter the sensation of Steve's hand on his dick, stroking quicker and harder, forcing him into this cycle of intense pleasure, all while staring at his own reflection, watching all of it happen, completely at Steve's mercy. Steve behind him, is rocking his own hard cock into Bucky's still clothed ass, biting and sucking Bucky's neck and staring back with eyes blown almost black, that ring of bright blue, neon under the light.

And it's just like this, eye's locked, Steve's teeth in his throat, one hand under his chin, the other twisting right there, so perfect, along his dick, that Bucky loses it, letting out a shocked gasp as he comes into Steve's hand, throwing all his weight into the mountain of man behind him and then relaxing into his hold.

Steve reaches around him gently to do something, wipe his hand on paper towel maybe, and then pulls Bucky around to him, to finally, exhaustingly, lean in and slide his lips against Bucky's swollen, bitten mouth. His lips are so soft and pink, and they press so sweetly to Bucky's that Bucky offers no resistance to letting Steve in. And soon Steve is greedily licking into his mouth, putting a rough hand down his own pants to stroke himself, hardly at all it seems, before he's coming too and breathing just as hard as Bucky, kisses growing lazier and lazier as his body loosens and he collapses against the wall, Bucky falling with him.

It takes them a minute to catch their breath. Steve pulls Bucky even closer to kiss him again, and then gently pushes him up and away to hold his own weight so that Steve can get his hand out of his pants, move his poor jacket aside and wash the mess into the sink. He leans in and gives Bucky another quick kiss before wiping his clean wet hands down his jeans.

'I'll go first. Give me a minute okay?'

Bucky just nods, still not capable of speech, and watches as Steve slips out the door. He locks it behind him.

He looks at himself in the mirror, at the mess of his hair now that it's mostly fallen around his face, at the red marks at his throat and under his chin from Steve’s hand, the bruises from his mouth. Jesus, fuck, he’s got his work conference tomorrow. And he should care about that, right? Except he really fucking doesn’t, because he feels so stupid good right now he just wants to sink into it, swim around in it. Live in it for a while. 

He splashes some water onto his face, redoes his bun, adjusts his pants and sweater so that he looks some semblance of put together and slips out to sneak carefully back to his seat. 

He feels like everyone is staring at him, though in fact, upon closer inspection it seems like no one gives a crap, they all have their own shit to do, their own problems to worry about, and slowly, slowly, a smile that he can’t hide starts to spread across Bucky’s face.

He finds a mirror of it in Steve when he gets to their row, and squeezes past him, crotch to poor Steve’s face (not that he seems to mind), to gingerly sit back in his cramped seat and buckle himself back in. 

He takes comfort in the fact that Steve has sat himself back into the middle seat, and though they speak nothing of it, he takes hold of Bucky’s hand and continues his soft massage into the same pressure points as before. 

He doesn’t let go for the rest of the flight.

He barely even registers landing.

And then all of a sudden it's time to disembark and Bucky is panicking for a totally different reason than he would normally be panicking right now. He doesn't care if his luggage is lost (oh, wait, he only has carry-on) and he doesn’t care if there are no taxis or they put him in a shit room, or they don’t do kosher.

What he’s really panicking about is the fact that he just had the most amazing three hours of the last year of his life, with a man he doesn't even know’s last name, with no intention of their ever seeing each other again. 

And he doesn’t want that.

But before he can make his brave big boy face and turn around to give Steve his number, he finds his stowed bag on the seat next to him, and Steve’s giant shoulders are halfway off the plane.

Trying to get through the airport is a nightmare. For some reason there are press everywhere. Bucky doesn't have the heart to pay the hustle and bustle any mind, he needs icecream. And that beer he's been dreaming about. He mopes through the terminal to grab the first cab he can find and then crack open his Mini bar.

It's not until he gets to the hotel and opens his bag that he finds the picture. Doodle, really, of Bucky's face in Steve's big hand. Signed simply SGR.

It's beautiful.

It's tender and delicate and it gives Bucky a little thrill that maybe there'll be more Steve in his future.

That and the phone number at the bottom of the page.

**Author's Note:**

> So I may have some semi grand plans for this, if anyone it interested in a part two...?
> 
> Let me know xx
> 
> Hit me up:  
>  **[darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue)** on tumblr
> 
> Or 
> 
> [@beclouise13](https://twitter.com/beclouise13)


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